


(if I) see you again

by Haustere



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 21:19:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15894345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haustere/pseuds/Haustere
Summary: It isn’t cynicism. Adam believes in fallibility, in entropy, and stakes his career on it. Knows it, in monochrome clarity, shrapnel floating in the free expanse of black; gas giants making poor company in the mute vacuum and lives lost where he survives.





	(if I) see you again

Cheers rally through the Garrison, spilling into the far reaches of command like a riptide. Exultant, with shores of discovery revisited, each passing second an immutable promise of wonder.

The launch is every bit a reverie. Flawless through sheer repetition – countless hours lost to simulation and singular obsession. Rolling reams of data logged into an _estimate_ of what Kerberos has to offer and they have the nerve to call it preparation, let alone success.

 _Nomad_ splits the sky, a speck of brilliance amidst murky atmosphere.

And Adam doesn’t care.

He doesn’t, because caring meant _Takashi-motherfucking-Shirogane._

Shiro, who never faltered where others could see, who knew better, who left everything he had for a distant dream.

For nothing, because there was never a shortage of talent no matter that Shiro liked to say. It _should_ have been someone else, because there was no guarantee the Holts would reach Kerberos, let alone return in one piece. Accidents happened, and a voyage of that time and distance was ambitious at best and suicidal at worst.

It isn’t cynicism. Adam believes in fallibility, in entropy, and stakes his career on it. Knows it, in monochrome clarity, shrapnel floating in the free expanse of black; gas giants making poor company in the mute vacuum and lives lost where he survives.

And there’s no reason to it. Ian, who sat in easy punching distance with a clumsy cavoodle and parents waiting in Kentucky. Lilting notes of a song, jarring but nevertheless recognisable with Medea filling out the report well in advance. Good, irritating people who deserved to live just as much as he did.

 _Resentment is not a coping mechanism_.

Surely, it was easier to preach than it was to practice. Months of therapy with the on-site psychologist, and that was all Adam could muster from recollection. And yet. It wasn’t altogether awful. There was no shame in the dialogue, only frustration where it seemed the best way to cope was to forget and forgetting meant letting his crew die for the last time.

If taking the good with the bad was his only choice, then Adam would brandish the attachment with pride.

 

 

(Hydrangeas are difficult to wrangle on short notice, and Shiro is instrumental in the ensuing game of group chat interrogation.

At the time, Adam understood Shiro’s sway as Garrison favourite on an intellectual level, but it was another to see his fiancé use it for chaotic neutral purposes. And no, it wasn’t at all frightening with someone slamming his door at ass-o’clock for the delivery. An anonymous cadet, looking dead to the world. They exchange nods and the deed is done.

Hours later, well into the civil concept of afternoon, Adam takes his first decent look at the bouquet – it’s a glorious mishmash of blues, pinks, and purples, and well beyond what he expected when Shiro first suggested them.

The anniversary arrives to a sweltering summer day, and Adam doubts his crew would have wanted it any other way. The Wall – an odd moniker, and one that stuck despite the odds – stands decorated with photographs, written pleas, and flowers spilling through pigeon holes. And names as far as he can see. The first voyagers, and those that followed.

Between compulsive planning and a record organised by chronology and crew, Adam makes short work of searching. Ian J. Medea Y. Mementos across their insignias, some tucked away from casual perusal and others a bright glimpse of humanity amongst sterile, utilitarian architecture. A ship miniature, eaten away with rust, like the ones they launched at the very beginning. Sticks of incense burnt near to violet stems, and others with plenty of wick to spare. A pair of jade figurines, resting side by side.

Messages and well-wishes tucked away, and Adam adds to the clutter. A bouquet, and a pair of wedding invitations puckered and inelegant where he jams them in. _This is me, delivering on my end of the bet. You better show up,_ he mutters, rambling now, _or I’ll bust your ectoplasmic asses come hell or high water._

Shiro, a warm weight to Adam’s right. He considers protesting the heavy arm across his shoulder, or the sweat dewing at his nape because their ceremonial uniforms had _enough insulation to survive the next nuclear winter_ – _an impressive feat if we weren’t located in the heart of a desert. Wouldn’t the army have better sense to—_

The world tilts on its axis, at least for the split second it takes to realise his glasses were sent askew before jolting back into place.

Adam raises his fist like a promise.

_…You know putting a ring on it won’t grant you immunity, right?_

If anything, Shiro grins wider at the threat, eyes bright. Not unlike a cat savouring canary, or a laughable attempt at guilt. Knowing his boyfriend, it was the latter while he leaned in to speak sotto voce.

_Never considered it. Though you might be interested to know Iverson’s been waiting to chat since ‘ectoplasmic ass’—_

It’s bait. And yet his body betrays him, head swivelling like a hunted man.

He glimpses the beard at his five o’clock.

 _What the_ fuck _, Shiro.)_

 

 

.

.

.

Adam shuts his laptop with a crack. It isn’t professional, and part of him already regrets the rough treatment, but none of it matters. He has a transfer request to submit, and a standoffish cadet to take under his wing.

 

-v-

 

Kogane pivots on his heel, every inch a burnt-out mess.

‘Quit acting like you care,’ he snaps, and the rest escapes in a flurry of sharp slopes and syllables erring just short of an abrupt departure, and another day spent missing from the garrison, ‘Shiro and I were close, but it doesn’t mean _you_ have to act the same way.’

He’s seen better days. Hair matted and dark smears of exhaustion underneath defiant eyes.

There was a reason Adam kept his interactions with the cadet brief, and in the company of an intermediary. Like combustible supplies orbiting a terraformer, kept separate for good reason; the incessant electrons of a stable nucleus; or competitive, sneering cadets with more salt than sense.

Which brought him here, in the wake of Griffin and his newest instalment of petty rivalry. Adam pinches the bridge of his nose, and it does little to relieve the dig of his glasses or the pressure pounding behind his eyelids.

‘Kogane. I’m going to be honest as I’ve ever been,’ Adam speaks, making concerted effort to inhale through his nose, and out in the next span of a second, ‘you are _sixteen_ years old and running off with no supplies or contingency plan. I care because it’s the right thing to do.’

 _And it’s what Shiro would have wanted_ , he swallows back, smarting from the omnipresent reminder, of heat in an empty space.

Kogane scowls, steadier now, eying Adam like a remarkably articulate parrot and finding what he sees wanting. Thank fuck _he’s_ the one having this conversation with Keith rather than the other instructors – or Iverson, the jolly man he is.

‘I’m not blind,’ the teen pauses, brow pinched, ‘just send me back to the orphanage and get this over with.’

The easiest answer, and what his superiors ultimately expect if he took the brief at face value:  _You’re a promising cadet with keen piloting sense. The Galaxy Garrison is a well-spring of opportunity, but only to those willing to persevere – and that might mean weathering a storm with no end in sight. Not only that, Shiro considered it the best environment for you to flourish with your current talents._

Nothing like encouragement with a side of manipulation to foster the next generation.

Adam chances a look at his watch – thirty minutes shy of the cafeteria closing for the night. ‘Kogane – is it alright if I call you Keith? How about we continue this in my office over a decent meal?’

Kogane looks as though he’d rather chew off his own hand. Adam backpedals, wracking his mind for a different pitch. Long, meandering conversations with Shiro in the comfort of their apartment come to mind, cocoa in hand and lounging on the couch. And Keith, with reflexes unrivalled and preternatural handling; who cared little for talk, and more for action.

It’s a terrible idea. Three breaches of confidentiality, and one in gross misappropriation of specialist clearance. But hey, protocol stopped mattering for shit the moment Professor Holt threw his weight in dismissing a medical evaluation.

‘The sims, then. Beat my record on the Nomad landing sequences and I swear to support whatever decision _you_ make,’ he offers, weighing the odds of keeping his job against proposing fisticuffs with some terribly deserving colleagues, ‘ _not_ what the others have so helpfully suggested.’

‘Timeframe? And what happens if I fail?’ The questions are more a formality at this point. Kogane looks every bit the stubborn, defiant teen Adam used to be and no way in hell would he turn down the opportunity, not when the sims were locked years beyond the average cadet.

’Twelve hours split across two weeks; and that’s for me to know and you to find out,’ Adam shoots back, ‘admit it, aren’t you the least bit curious? Topographically unstable terrain, a pressure system that just won’t quit, and rankings to see where you measure up against qualified pilots—'

‘I’m in. Are we doing this now or later?’ Score one for bribery and zero for good intentions.

Adam purses his lips, giving Kogane a full sweep – shoulders slouched with exhaustion, the steady sway from one foot to another, balance lost, then readjusted, and dust making a smudged canvas of the teen’s attire.

It’s one thing to have initiative, and it’s another to overextend. Adam’s had enough experience with the latter to last a lifetime.

‘Eat. Rest. Shiro gave you my number, didn’t he?’

Kogane burns a hole through his forehead before deigning to nod. _Teenagers_.

‘Then tomorrow. Give me a time between seventeen-hundred and twenty-hundred,’ he concludes, turning away.

 

 

-v-

 

 

It would be simpler if they didn’t look so much alike.

Gunderson is an exemplary cadet, if you went by pure academics. Brilliant in the truest sense, a passion for space, and for the ever-branching roulette of human error that came with it. A systems engineer if Adam ever saw one, or a particularly mean academic, fit to jolt the world out of the slump that came with new-age research. And hell if they didn’t deserve it.

A prodigy in all but practical application. And where talent entered the picture, it was all too easy to imagine a universe where Gunderson and Kogane were morphed into a super-cadet rather than weaving through the Garrison like halves of the same destructive coin.

And yet. The uncanny resemblance to Matt meant _illegitimate children_ , _paperthin disguises_ , or perhaps it rang too close to blasphemy to consider, no matter how plausible it seemed. Prof Holt was renown both in and outside of the Garrison, for his research, and for his unmistakable contributions to charity. That, and he was easily the best instructor they had… despite exploiting his sway for reasons best left for later scrutiny.

What Adam knows of the younger Holt is through grudging acquaintance – as members of the same specialist cohort, and a chain of happenstances where they spent many a day in the library cramming, then lamenting over the educational anathema that came with rote, the next Garrison couple, or Shiro’s beard of shame.

There’s no denying the stab-twist that accompanies recollection, but. Honestly, Adam’s hard pressed to remember anything of the Garrison without drifting to Shiro. What he can control is the aftermath, and that means taking the situation for what it is rather than latching onto negativity.

A dry, scratchy cough jolts him back to reality. Right.

‘What’s a Holt doing at the Garrison?’

That elicits a skeptical lift of an eyebrow, spectacles catching light as Gunderson–Holt shifts his weight forward in the chair.

‘Okay. Why the alias?’

‘Instructor Wright, pardon my candor, but did you have another reason for calling me here? Because you’re not really speaking sense,’ Holt digresses, flashing an apologetic smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Certainly a better poker face than the average cadet. Adam settles his cheek against his knuckles, and (still) it throws him off when he feels the phantom loop of a ring against his skin.

‘Cadet, nothing we say here will leave my office,’ he deadpans, fighting down the urge to yawn from consecutive evenings spent marking, wrangling bygone syllabi, and throwing Garrison protocol to the wind for good justice, ‘now spill, or I go marching up to Iverson to demand a record audit.’

Holt freezes in his chair, emotions flickering through his expression – too quick to parse beyond the unmistakable fear – before shutting his eyes with a resentful sigh.

‘I’m a bastard,’ the brunette spills, throwing up his hands in frustration, ‘did you want my life story while we’re at it?’

Adam _should_ feel bad for accosting one of his students.

Most have submitted the laziest essays Adam’s had the pleasure of marking. No respect for Murphy’s law, let alone the science that came with troubleshooting a spaceship’s system and user interface.

Gunderson was a flagrant exception to this rule, and that meant caring. In a sense.

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Adam claps his hands together, grinning, ‘does anyone else know? Any legal or personal concerns you’d like to disclose? What are your grades like, and how much downtime do you have in between studying?’

The teenager shoots him a dubious look, mouth curling into an uncertain scowl. ‘No, _no_ , grades are as good as they can be, aside from sims. As for downtime…’ the cadet scrunches his face, as though contemplating the _why_ of it all and coming up with nothing, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the tabletop, ‘two to four hours a day. Sir.’

‘Perfect, because I’ve nominated you for a field testing apprenticeship,’ he raises a hand, spying the impending interrogative, ‘practically speaking, you’ll have a larger stipend and freedom to muck about. You’re well ahead of the curriculum judging by your extra credit assignments, and much of your work will be during the intervals you have with me, give or take the one-off practical.’

Shellshock and abject incredulity. Gunderson opening up from the outset is ideal, even though it isn’t for the best reasons. Who was he to judge, anyway? Not like you could grill someone and have them come out the other side content and well-adjusted.

‘Was there something I missed, cadet?’

‘Uh, no—I mean. You don’t care?’ If his voice cracks on the last word, it falls to the wayside for all the brunette cares for it.

Adam pauses where he loads the paperwork on a handheld, more than a little concerned. ‘Should I? If it won’t interfere with the work you do with me, I’m happy to corroborate whatever story you have cooked up, Gunderson.’

‘And you won’t tell anyone? Isn’t it your job to report—’ the cadet waves an ambiguous hand, ‘— _this_?’

‘Did you… want me to?’

 

 

-v-

 

 

‘Wright? A word, please?’

_Good god._

Adam pivots on his heel, just metres short of his destination and the promise of reprieve. Whoever built the senior barracks a hop-skip away from command had poor grasp of personal boundaries. That is, unless you were a devout workaholic.

A familiar face greets him in the lowlight, haggard as ever. There wasn’t much else you could _be_ , working a department that required twenty-four hour contact and inconsistent shifts. ‘Park – what can I do for you this evening?’

‘At ease,’ teases the comms specialist, ‘it’s more a personal call than anything else.’

‘Oh?’

Adam does a poorer job in masking his reaction than he thinks, because Park is softer for it. She pulls a chip from her lapel before holding it out. Unlabelled. Innocuous.

‘More of the usual. I know it isn’t my business, but it wouldn’t hurt to—’

‘Park.’ He’s too tired for anything else.

The specialist fixes a steady hand against his shoulder until Adam musters the effort to meet her gaze once more.

‘It’ll be months until the Nomad’s back in comm range,’ she sighs, slipping the chip into his hand and closing it into a fist where he hopes it’ll fall to the floor, ‘just… give it a listen, okay? I promised I’d ask.’

Adam forces a smile, because it’s the least he can do from one friend to another.

The rest passes in a blur.

**Author's Note:**

> #AdamDeservedBetter and my god I'll try my best to deliver. HUGE thanks to @revolocities for being the shadam cornerstone we need in these trying times.


End file.
